Rage Against The Storm
by catchme21
Summary: What happens when Dean is forced to carry his brother one last time. Spoilers for AHBL 1 and 2. Now includes Sam's POV...and the 'one shot' theory has been left in the dust...
1. Do Not Go Gentle

After watching AHBL for the hundredth time, I finally succumbed and wrote this piece. I normally don't do missing scenes, I think I've only done one other beside this. Well I hope you guys enjoy this piece, I had fun writing it. :)

Also proud to say this won Best Missing Scene for the Supernatural.tv 2007 Fanfic Awards.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. In fact, I threw my whole paycheck into the stupid well, and the boys are still owned by Kripke and Co. Maybe someday...

---sn---

It was colder than it should have been for this time of year. Silence stretched out, reaching, encircling, threatening to suffocate. The ground was solid beneath him, and the gravel dug painfully into his knees. His leg muscles cramped from the strain of balancing, his hands shook as he held on for dear life. The moon hid behind the clouds like a coward, plunging the small deserted town into blackness, leaving a bone-deep cold to slither through the trees, attacking those most vulnerable.

Dean Winchester, in the center of it all, felt nothing.

Bobby had taken off running, chasing the faceless man that had taken the life of the youngest hunter. The trees shrouded in darkness hid his escape, and soon the only footfalls and gasps for breath that could be heard belonged to the aged hunter. He had forced himself to give up his chase on Jake, focusing on getting back to the brothers.

"Sam!"

The heartbroken cry had nearly driven him to his knees. Bobby stumbled, but refused to fall, and quickened his pace.

The sight that greeted him stopped him cold, and he finally gave in to gravity, falling to his knees. For a moment, Bobby Singer couldn't breathe as he watched the boys before him.

Dean sat on the ground, his body language mirroring Sam's, both resting on their knees. Dean held Sam's unresisting body to him, clutching him in a fierce hug.

"No, no, no, no, oh God Sam, no, no, no…" Dean repeated, his own shock hampering his ability to do much else. From his position, Bobby could see the faint dark circle in the center of Sam's back. The reality of the situation came crashing down, causing him to lean forward slightly, now supporting his upper body with one hand pressed firmly into the ground. He saw it all in slow motion…

"_Sam!" Dean called again, cursing under his breath. The surrounding woods was silent, not even the creatures of the night wanted to be out for this. They rounded the corner and were greeted by the sight of Sam limping towards them._

"_Dean!" he returned, clutching his arm to his chest. A man in an Army uniform appeared out of nowhere, and in a heart-stopping instant, they knew what his intention was._

_The warning had been too late…too late…they had been too late..._

_They ran in unison, the younger man dropping to catch his fallen brother._

It hit Bobby in that moment with blinding clarity…the knife…the grunt of pain…Sam had been stabbed in the back. The thought pulled him back to his feet, and he forced one foot after the other, intent on reaching the boys.

With a hand that shook, he checked for a pulse, and couldn't find one. He studied the wound up close, and knew it had gone right through the boy's spinal cord. Sam was dead. Oh God.

"Dean," Bobby tried. He refused to lose both brothers, though he knew Dean wouldn't survive. It was too much to ask.

"No," Dean repeated, though Bobby knew it was more a continuation of his mantra than an answer to Bobby's call.

"Dean," he tried again. "We have to get out of here."

"No," Dean repeated.

He hated the thought of leaving the dying and the already dead alone, but he knew he didn't have a choice. Bobby tried again: "Dean, we can't let Sam sit out here. I'm going to find a place where we can move him, stay here."

Knowing he wouldn't receive a reply, he didn't bother to wait for one. A quick scouting of the town revealed that they were the only ones remaining.

His first building revealed two bodies, a young man drenched in blood and a young woman with her head at the wrong angle. He bent to study the man first. He looked like he'd been ripped to pieces by a wild animal, and the amount of blood pooling beneath him was unreal. Bobby shuddered, and knew the poor guy had met with a demon. The girl on the other hand, her death had been quick and painless. She was on her side, but her eyes were fixed almost behind her. He wondered if she'd also met with the Army guy. Shaking his head and saying a quick word for the dead, Bobby moved on.

The third building he entered didn't have much, but it had what they would need. He ran back out to the square, relieved to find the brothers still there.

"Dean, we have to get out of the center of the square, we have to move."

Bloodshot eyes moved slightly, barely focusing on him.

"Bobby," he said, barely in a whisper. "I can't…Sam…he's…Bobby…I can't fix this."

"I know Dean, but I found a place where we can move your brother. We need to move now."

Bobby bent down to grab Sam, but held off when he heard the low growl emitted from the older brother. "I've got him. I've always had him."

Bobby nodded and stepped back, knowing Dean had to do this for himself.

Moments passed before Dean finally moved, his hands gripping his brother's arms as he pushed him away slightly, supporting him so he sat upright. Grabbing Sam's right arm, Dean carefully maneuvered it around his neck while never failing to let his brother fall to the cold dirt below. With some difficulty but refusing to give up, Dean soon had Sam in the position for a fireman's carry. In one solid motion, he stood, settling his brother's form evenly over his shoulders. His shoulders adjusted to the weight, the weight he had proudly carried his whole life.

The path to the small decrepit house was a blur; one shaking footstep after the other brought him closer to the cracked and peeling door. Bobby opened the door, and moved aside so Dean could squeeze through. By the time he had the door shut, and had made it back to the pair, he found Dean standing soundlessly by the bed.

Sam was still stretched across his shoulders, a silent refusal screamed by Dean. He didn't want to put Sam on the small dingy bed. He didn't want to witness his brother's life force draining slowly into the stained mattress, he didn't deserve that. Most of all he didn't want to see his brother's face. As long as he held him, he wouldn't have to see the failure spelled out in Sam's relaxed features. Putting Sam down now was like admitting he was truly gone.

Once again, Bobby hated to leave them alone. But he had to, they had to move soon. He needed Dean with him first, needed him sharp and aware. He dropped his gaze from the broken man and checked his watch. As far as he knew, Dean hadn't eaten in the past twelve hours. Struggling to fight his own consummation of grief, he decided to gather the necessary supplies and to take care of the sole remaining Winchester. The distraction would help him not focus on the fact that there was one remaining Winchester in the world, and there probably wouldn't be for long.

"Dean, listen to me. I have to leave for a minute. I'll be right back, ok? Dean?"

"Sure," Dean answered numbly, still not giving up his precious hold on what remained of his shattered life.

Bobby pursed his lips, quickly flattening them into a grim line of determination. Quickly deciding, he turned and left before he could change his mind.

What seemed like hours passed before Dean could summon the urge to place his brother on the bed. Reality came screaming down at him, separating the hazy cloud he had been surrounded in. His neck and shoulders ached from bearing the – Lord help him – dead weight of his brother. Before his shaking knees could give out on him, he turned and clutched Sam's right arm once more, holding him in place until he could carefully lower him onto the bed.

He positioned Sam's legs so they lay straight on the mattress, and crossed his unresisting hands over his still chest. Dean sucked in a painful breath as he staggered backwards, not used to having the weightlessness not pulling his shoulders down. He let them slump, turning away, still unable to truly see his brother.

His blurry gaze focused on the cabinet across from the room. Various pots and pans sat scattered across the surface of the shelves, rust gluing them to the decaying wood. In the corner, he spotted an old liquor bottle, three-quarters full of heaven-sent brown liquid.

Like a man stumbling to a waterfall in the desert, Dean raced for the bottle that would give him sweet oblivion. He uncapped it, barely hearing the small plastic topper as it fell onto the table. He tilted his head upwards and let four large mouthfuls burn acidic trails down his throat before he came up for air. The liquid hit his empty stomach, threatening to rebel its way back to the light. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, downing the bottle one aching shot at a time. The numbness from his grief consumed him, stealing his ability to slip away in an alcohol-induced coma.

He stared at the bottle, his newest enemy. Why wasn't it giving him the desperate release he craved?

In frustration he capped the bottle once more, slamming it down on the table. Stumbling over, he reached for the doorway that separated the hell he found himself in, and the comfort of family he'd finally lost. Misjudging the distance, he fell short of the doorway and on his hands and knees. He swayed a bit, his limbs shaking as he struggle to pull himself back to his feet. The world spun around him, and he landed flat on his stomach. His stomach rejected the sudden contact, and he had to fight several minutes of nausea and dizziness before he could even raise his head.

Bringing himself back up to his hands and knees, he crawled over to the doorway and turned, settling himself against it so the wood dug into his back. He wished it would enter his back, severe his spinal cord, and send him down the bright path behind his brother.

He let his head drop, and let the darkness that had been calling finally pull him under.

---

Slowly he returned to awareness. A bright light turned the vision behind his closed eyelids a slight red, bringing him fully around. With a grown he forced his eyes open, staring at the grimy window that had allowed the rising sun access to the room.

He stood, grasping at the door frame for support. The world spun around him for the second time, and instantly he knew he was going to be sick. Rushing outside, he dropped to his hands and knees and expelled the empty contents of his stomach. Spotting a water basin resting against the next building, he stumbled towards it and dipped his hands into it. All of his movements seemed automatic, and he knew he had no control over anything right now.

_Sam…missing…stabbed…dying…DEAD…_

Rinsing his mouth out with the murky water, he didn't allow himself to taste the rusted rain water that had sat a little too long. He rinsed his face, allowing a few tears to escape with the water that ran down, intermingling so he could tell himself they didn't exist.

It hurt so _bad_. Every injury he'd ever had…every wound that had ever needed stitching or bullets that had needed digging…he would endure them all again if that meant he didn't have to feel what he was feeling now.

His boots sounded hollow and cold in the silent house as he returned. Sam didn't deserve this, didn't deserve to be mourned by a fallen-down drunk. He eyed the bottle on the table, and longed for another drink. Not allowing himself the pleasure, the release he was sure he could find again, he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. His dull gaze fixed on Sam, who had not moved an inch.

He didn't deserve anything anymore.

If he hadn't been brought back from the dead…if he hadn't taken Sam to that diner…if he hadn't distracted Sam so he turned his back on his opponent…

He didn't deserve the right to pull oxygen into his lungs. He didn't deserve the right to be able to feel…to live…

A thought struck him. He remembered seeing a crossroad on their long drive to the distant town. He hadn't thought anything of it then. What if…

The door opening interrupted his thoughts. His mind, still in shock, temporarily dropped the thought of the crossroads and continued its habit of concentrating on one task at a time.

He couldn't face Bobby, not now. Muffled words rammed through his barricades, and he thought he heard Bobby state he'd brought something back for him. Whatever it was, he didn't want it.

"No thanks, I'm fine," he answered, the words tumbling from his lips before he even realized what he was saying.

Unable to help himself, he turned, reaching for the bottle.


	2. No Rest For The Weary

So I wrote this piece actually quite a bit after the first part, and its my first attempt at 1st person. But this shows it from Sam's POV. I am tinkering with the idea of taking it all the way to when Sam wakes up, and my awesome pals Alisa and Jules may have convinced me to...

Once again, hope you enjoy. The comments mean a lot to me, thank you everyone who has read and favorited. Yeah, that's right, I seeee you!! Hahahahaha...

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own them, this is just for fun. This piece is also unbeta'd, and my Word has crapped out so I didn't even have that to edit with, I apologize profusely for any mistakes.

---sn---

He was so relieved, so happy, and so pissed at all the same time. Dean had found him, Bobby hot on his heels. For that he was relieved. Dean was walking, breathing, and for that he was happy. He lost count over the last few hours of how many times his gut had clenched, how many times he'd almost gotten sick, over the fact that Dean could very well be dead. After all, what was to stop the blood and carnage from spreading to the black metal cage sitting in the parking lot of the diner? Even when Andy had sent that little vision, they hadn't received a read receipt so he hadn't even been sure Dean had gotten the note.

The look of worry on his brother's face had him pissed. He was pissed at the demon, pissed at Jake, and pissed at himself. Once again, he'd allowed himself to be taken. On more than one occasion had that earned him the loving nickname of "Daphne" from Dean, the "hot red-headed chick in the Scooby Gang who was always getting taken and tied up". The fact that Dean had been worried about him at all had him pissed. He knew Dean had to have been clawing the countryside since he had disappeared.

Every emotion he had been assaulted with at the appearance of his brother, was gone in a flash of hot, acidic pain in the center of his back. Dean was screaming, and he barely registered the feeling of his own knees hitting the ground. The world tunneled, and all Sam could do was barely hold an unfocused gaze on Dean's face as his eyes closed against his will.

His mind may have shut down, and his body was closely following suit, but it wasn't hard to figure out he was dying.

_No! I'm not ready!!_

_---_

There's something to be said for being dead. There's so many tortured spirits that I've wasted, smelling the burning rotted bones and feeling the heat of the flames that consumed their remains, sending them on to wherever it is they go. Dean and I have never really questioned it, we just know thats the way to stop their often murderous rampages.

I'm not in any pain, at least I don't think I am. I can't really feel my body anymore, and such things as the wind whispering through the surrounding trees has no effect on me. I know I'm dead, without a doubt, for I am standing here, watching as my brother hopelessly clings to my dead body. I can see the dark stain that spreads on my jacket, the wound that stole the breath from my lungs.

Dean is scaring me. Every word he's ever learned in his short life, English and Latin, has been simply replaced by the word "no". He can't stop repeating it, except for the occasional cussing out that he's giving my already cold form.

I'm not sure what my death will do to Dean. I've never pondered it, never thought about it. In our line of work, you can't sit around and think about which one of you is going to go first. In some sadistic way, I always hoped it'd be Dean. Dad's death had been too much for the both of us, and I'm pretty sure mine is just the icing on the cake. I may not have dealt with Dean's death any better, but Dean was dangerous when crossed.

Already Dean has that murderous glint in his eyes. Not the kind where he's going to go out and kill the evil son of a bitch that set us all up to kill each other, I'm pretty sure Dean has already decided he's going to kill himself.

For a man with out a body to feel, that thought sends ice through my non-existent veins. I want to scream at him, grab him, tell him to stop where he's at. But I know he won't hear me, won't feel me. I am a helpless spectator, the person on the side of the road unable to stop a car crash playing out in slow motion before me.

I am powerless.

Bobby has returned, slipping past me while I'm lost in my own thoughts. He's telling Dean they need to move me, they need to get going. When he fails to receive a response, Bobby spins and heads for the nearest run down shack. It is the same one the other kids and I had made our stance at, the same one...

_No Bobby, don't go in there._

I follow him up the steps, but can't follow him inside. He comes out looking a little green, and I can't help but scoff lightly. This man, who had once sewn his own finger back on, was apparently effected by the bodies inside. He moves to the next building, and I return to Dean.

He is in the same position, his knees touching mine, his arms wrapped tightly around me. I hear him murmuring softly, his hands fisting in my jacket as he rocks us back and forth.

"It'll be okay Sammy, I'm going to fix this. Don't be scared, everything's going to be okay."

That right there scares me more than a two-headed werewolf ever could. Now, I'm not convinced Dean's headed for suicide. No, now I know he's going to do something much more stupid. I'm not sure what he has planned, but I'm scared for him.

Bobby returns and informs Dean he's found a place for me.

_Please Bobby, tell me its a funeral pyre. Please burn me before Dean does something we'll both regret._

I watch as Dean struggles to lift my body. In one quick motion, he's standing fully erect and is carrying me as if I'm nothing. But it doesn't surprise me, he's been carrying me my whole life, whether I've wanted carrying or not. Its simply who Dean is.

I follow the morbid parade, the silence of my world broken by the suction of the mud swallowing their footsteps. When you're dead, you can still hear, but the world is silent. In between their footsteps and their broken conversation, a silence like I have never known surrounds me. I can't even hear the ringing in my ears that I'd been experiencing after that jaw-shattering blow, compliments of Jake.

Now, I really wish I'd killed him.

Dean stands by the bed as Bobby and I catch up to him, hanging on to me for dear life. And a part of me doesn't want him to let go either. He lays me down, makes me comfortable. That's part of taking care of me, I guess. Dean will probably never stop.

Bobby leaves, mentioning food. At this point, I'm thanking God, Jesus, and whoever else is listening. Bobby may be Dean's salvation, his only hope, which is damn good considering I can no longer be. I'm not meaning to toot my own horn, but even an outsider could see that Dean centered his life around mine more often than not. Whether I wanted him to or not.

I'm pulled from my thoughts by the sound of a small plastic cap hitting the table. Dean is in the other room, has found a bottle, and is busy emptying that bottle. The label is worn, faded, but I'm guessing its whiskey. I'm amazed he is able to take such long swallows, the burn is obviously having no effect on him. His eyes are watering, but I'm not sure if thats from the burn or if they are unshed tears.

I'm not even going to beg Dean to put the bottle down. He can't hear me, and I'm not even sure if I have a voice anymore. Instead, all I can do is watch the car crash happening in slow motion. That silence is back, unbroken as Dean simply stares at the bottle.

Dean turns and falls, and I'm unable to catch him. I can't even feel when the lump forms in my throat, but I wipe my face to find tears. Watching Dean go through this is tearing me up, I can't handle it.

But I owe it to him. I owe him every single moment of my undivided attention, though I want to badly tear my gaze from this train wreck.

This situation can no longer be classified as a car wreck.

Finally Dean crawls to the doorway, lets his head fall forward and promptly passes out.

Creeping quietly, as if I could disturb him, I settle myself across from him. The darkness slowly gives way to light as the sun rises, but damnit I'm going to keep vigil until there's nothing left.

I lose awareness after a while, staring blankly at the hero I had never really appreciated, only to regain it and to find Dean outside. He's rinsing his mouth out with a bucket full of century-old water, gasping and sputtering as he chokes on the stale water.

If the grief doesn't get him, the E. coli might. He doesn't seem to care, but instead makes his way slowly back into the cabin.

Where the hell is Bobby?

He's hunched over, clutching at his middle as if he's in pain. He makes his way up the stairs, a sob escaping him every few feet.

No injury I've ever witnessed has had Dean in such a state of pain. I have seen him take almost everything, but not once has he ever cried. From being stitched to having his broken arm set by our own father, all he's ever done was to sit and suffer silently, his eyes fixed on me, not once offering a vocal admittance to the amount of pain he was in.

The yellowed-eye son of a bitch doesn't count. His torture on Dean was inhumane. Or maybe my view of my life is now compromised by my death. All I can see now is this larger than life older brother, who could do no wrong and showed no weakness. At this point he could have stepped into a phone booth, ripped at his clothing, and stepped out in blue and red spandex, and I wouldn't have been surprised. Dean was my superhero.

But maybe, when I wasn't there for him to fix his gaze on, he was unable to stay silent. He could finally unleash his tight hold on the facade.

He's leaning on the door frame, his gaze fixed on me, and once again he's silently plowing through his pain.

Bobby returns, his arms loaded with food. Dean refuses the help, but turns and grabs the bottle once more.

---sn---

Thanks for reading guys. I guess keep an eye out for even more haha...wow...

Loves,  
Kris


	3. Live For You

I blame this on Jules. My very good friend has convinced me to go even further with this, and has given me some awesome ideas to steal.

I have even more than this part planned, but I wanted to get some sort of update up before I left for the holidays.

Thank you Jules, from here on out this is dedicated to you.

I also apologize, one of the boards I post at requires code for italics, and I had forgotten to take them out of this post. Fixed.

* * *

_**Then...**_

_No injury I've ever witnessed has had Dean in such a state of pain. I have seen him take almost everything, but not once has he ever cried. From being stitched to having his broken arm set by our own father, all he's ever done was to sit and suffer silently, his eyes fixed on me, not once offering a vocal admittance to the amount of pain he was in._

_The yellowed-eye son of a bitch doesn't count. His torture on Dean was inhumane. Or maybe my view of my life is now compromised by my death. All I can see now is this larger than life older brother, who could do no wrong and showed no weakness. At this point he could have stepped into a phone booth, ripped at his clothing, and stepped out in blue and red spandex, and I wouldn't have been surprised. Dean was my superhero._

_But maybe, when I wasn't there for him to fix his gaze on, he was unable to stay silent. He could finally unleash his tight hold on the facade._

_He's leaning on the door frame, his gaze fixed on me, and once again he's silently plowing through his pain._

_Bobby returns, his arms loaded with food. Dean refuses the help, but turns and grabs the bottle once more._

**_Now..._**

I cross my arms and lean on the aged wooden counter, this isn't going to end well. Dean has a deadened look in his eyes, and he's gripping the bottle like he's ready to start swinging. The only one in his path right now is Bobby.

Especially since Bobby just approached the subject of putting me to rest. I want nothing more than for Dean to build a pyre, start the mourning. The longer he stays with me in that cabin, the closer he is to no return.

I can see what's about to happen, its something I have feared since I was old enough to understand. I knew that if I was the first to go, Dean would push everyone away and try to bear through the pain alone. Maybe I wasn't so selfish to want to go together, or for him to go first. I'm worried my quick, unexpected death will destroy him.

It also saddens me that our last unknowing conversation was about pie.

"Somethin' big is going down. End of the world big." I have to give Bobby props for trying, but I know he is approaching Dean the wrong way. I run my hands through my hair in frustration, and give an angry growl.

"Well then let it end!"

"You don't mean that," Bobby argues.

"You don't think so? Huh? You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've paid enough? I'm done with it…all of it."

The fury in Dean's voice is startling, and I'm glad I'm leaning on the counter. The sharp cold edge digs into my hip as I rest my full weight; at this point I do not trust my own legs.

Then it happens, Dean pushes Bobby away, literally. Bobby was the last remaining hunter we could really count on, the battle last year with Meg had ensured that. We had always kept a place for Ellen, but since we truly didn't know her, she was a last resort. Or at least that's what Dean had said, though I knew he was wary of why Dad had kept her world a secret from us.

Recognizing a futile attempt, Bobby turns to leave. In an instant I'm off of the counter and chasing after the older hunter. "Bobby, please, stay, you can't leave him alone, come on Bobby," I'm repeating, rambling over and over again.

Bobby can't hear me, the desperation and fear in my voice echoes around me, myself, and I. The door slams, and we're alone.

At this point I'm not sure who is worse off.

Dean takes another long swig from the bottle, and slowly spins the cap back on. He turns his back to me, and for the first time I notice how pronounced the slump in his shoulders has become.

He slowly spins, and begins to walk towards me. His eyes are downcast, but I know where he's headed. He passes right by, but his shoulder brushes mine. He stops, his head perks up.

"Sammy?" he says quietly, then shakes his head. "Get a hold of yourself Winchester." He sounds angry with himself, bitter.

"Hey Sammy," he says carefully while he drags a chair from the corner over to the bed.

This is the first time I've looked at my body in the past few hours. If possible, I've become even worse for wear, my skin has taken on an ashy tone, my cheeks and eyes have sunken. My vision blurs, and though I don't feel the burn, I know my eyes have filled with tears. How the hell is this fair? I have never truly known fairness in my life, but this one takes the cake. To be taken out from behind by a punk ass weasel was not the way I had imagined my imminent death.

I shared, though I never would have admitted to it, Dean's vision of going out in glory, of taking as many evil bastards out with me as I could. Maybe cause a few explosions, make the ten o'clock news.

"You know when we were little, I mean you couldn't have been more than five, you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom, why do we always have to move around, where'd Dad go…when he'd take off for days at a time. I remember, I begged you 'quit asking Sammy, man you don't want to know'."

I remember that time in our lives vividly, he protected me from more than I ever knew. Part of me will always resent this, I suppose. I was sheltered my whole life, protected under the shadows of two great heros. Maybe if I hadn't been so pampered and hidden, I would have done what needed to be done. Jake should have died, I should have killed him. I blame my own weakness for this costly mistake. Because I wasn't strong enough, Dean is now paying the cost.

"I just wanted you to be a kid, just for a little while longer. I always tried to protect you, keep you safe."

"You did man."

"Dad didn't even have to tell me, it was just always my responsibility, ya know? It was like I had one job…I had one job, and I screwed it up." The last line came out in a broken sob, as Dean begins to do something I hadn't seen in a long time.

My own chest begins to tighten, and I think it was only the sheer amount of guilt and anger that was enabling me to feel at all. It is the first emotion I'm feeling since the son of a bitch stabbed me in the back, and I don't want it to stop. I want to feel as much pain as Dean is, I want to share his grief and his heart break.

"I blew it…and for that I'm sorry." Dean wipes at the first fall of tears, and I gently lower myself to sit opposite him. I have my back turned to my own body as I move myself into Dean's line of sight.

"Don't apologize Dean. You have nothing to be sorry for." _Oh God don't apologize._

"I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down…and now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down too?"

"No Dean! You didn't let me down, you didn't let Dad down! Oh God Dean, this one is all my fault! Don't you dare place the blame on yourself! Blame me for once damnit!!"

"How can I? Am I supposed to live with that?"

His voice is nearly monotone, devoid of the any emotion. At this point he's making statements rather than asking questions.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Live! Burn my body, set me free, and move on!" I've jumped off of the bed and am now pacing around the room, waving my arms as I fight to be heard. Dean is not going to let this go, he's not going to let me go. I can see that his grief is tearing him apart, and I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to save him.

"Sammy…" he pleads, his façade falling apart. "Oh God…"

"Dean, come on man, don't do this. You know what has to be done. Put me to rest and go find Bobby. He needs you! You need him!" I damn Bobby for leaving him alone; I damn myself for killing him.

"What am I supposed to do?" His anger is growing, and I know he's about to put his plans into action. For the past few hours, he's been putting together a plan, I could see it. Now, he's about to execute, and I am suddenly cold all over.

His inhale is sharp and quick, and he slowly rises. Kicking the bottom of the metal bed frame, he yells out: "What am I supposed to do?!"

"Live Dean," I whisper quietly, my failure crushing me under its weight. "Live for me...live for you...live for us..."

* * *

More probably after the holidays. 

Hope you all have a pleasantly wonderful holiday season.

Kris


	4. Silent Witness

Short update. There will be more coming soon as soon as I tweak it to my liking, might take a while haha.

This follows the episode quite a bit, and I take no credit for the actual lines and actions taken from the episode AHBL2. That belongs to writers Erik Kripke and Michael Moore, and is under the direction of Kim Manners.

I hope you guys enjoy. This has become one of my favorite stories to add to, and I hope I can keep y'all interested in it too. :)

* * *

My next conscious thought I was in my rightful place. Now at this point, I know I'm not haunting my body, or the place I died. If you can call this haunting I guess. I'm not trapped within the confines of how I died, I'm trapt within those of how I lived.

I'm sitting on the slick leather bench seat of a gleaming black 1967 Chevy Impala. I'm on the passenger side, to the right of the driver. I'm haunting a person. I'm haunting Dean. I'm being pulled along for his self-destruction, like a toddler dragging a dog around by the leash. Like the dog, I can't stop it. And in some morbid way, like the toddler I don't want to.

The scenery is a blur by the window; the Impala is racing down a dirt road at death-defying speeds. Her handler is easily pushing her around the tight bends, and I'm sure if I was able to I would feel the contents of my stomach creeping up my throat. Gravel flies from beneath the tires, and pings through the undercarraige of the car.

Normally, Dean would be giggling like a kid at a carnival, urging his baby on faster as they clipped near miss after near miss. I would be gripping the dash and the door, Dean would be calling me a 'wuss' and an 'uptight old woman'.

Not today.

Today is different.

Dean is gripping the steering wheel so tight I can clearly see the whiteness of his knuckles and the redness as his fingers lose circulation. And he doesn't know I'm here.

His stare is aimed straight ahead. I keep expecting to see that familiar side glance of his as he gives me some smart comment, but not once does he turn my way.

"I'm not giving up on you Sammy." The words were so quiet and so loud at the same time.

"Dean, please, stop the car." I don't know what else to do. I can't physically stop him; I sure as hell can't psychically stop him, so pleading is what I have for the moment. It's all I've got.

"I can't." I know he isn't answering my demand directly, but those two words answer it all the same.

The Impala slides the last few inches as Dean slams on the brakes. He's out and heading towards the trunk before I can even process his movements. By the time I'm out, he's got the small wooden box in his hands and is heading for the center of the crossroads. He never falters; he just gives two quick looks over each shoulder and drops to his knees to dig.

At this point I am an inch from his face, screaming obscenities that would have made him blush. He continues piling the dirt on the damned box, and I'm yelling and waving my arms like a lunatic. He would laugh if he could see me now.

He slowly rises, and I attempt to dig at the small pile of disturbed dirt. The rocks begin to shift, and just as I reach the box, I blink and the hole appears undisturbed. Unable to comprehend, I try once more. Same results. I can't reach that damn box.

"Oh come on already," Dean whispers. "Show your face you ugly bitch!" he yells a bit louder.

"This cannot be happening! Dean, you're an idiot!" I yell right back. I've given up on the box.

"Easy sugar, you'll wake the neighbors."

I look up and find the angelic face staring right at me, and she quickly shifts her gaze to Dean. She _heard_ me, she could _see_ me.

"You stay away from him!" Once again her eyes flick my way before moving back to my brother. She ignores me and begins to walk towards him, taunting him. "You hear me you bitch?!" Of course she can hear me, I know she can.

The Dean I know and depended on for so long is gone. Her voice echoes around me, and the longer I focus on Dean the less I can hear what she's actually saying He has been replaced by a mere shell, I can see the life drain from him, each word the red-eyed demon throws wears at him like waves on the shore.

I snort, imagining Dean's reaction to my developed train of thought. Maybe Stanford really did ruin my 'more useful education' as Dean calls the first eighteen years of my grooming at his hands.

"I should send you straight back to hell," Dean sneers, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Both the demon and I know he won't, but she's the only one that voices it. She's feeding off his pain, using it to fuel her addiction for human misery and despair.

Dean begins to bargain with his soul, like he's some used car salesman. "There are a hundred other demons who would love to get their hands on it. And it's all yours, all you gotta do is bring Sam back. Give me ten years…"

"I don't want to live with you for ten years just to lose you!" I scream again. "God I swear I'm going to kill you myself!" I just can't take this, I can't watch this happen. Dean's going to bring me back, and I'm going to lose him in the process. "Let's not forget about the part where hell hounds tear you to pieces and you spend the rest of eternity in hell!"

"You must be joking."

For a moment, hope soars like a jaded ray of freakin' sunshine. I realize then that Dean's pain might be too much for the demon to pass up on. She might spare my brother just to watch him beg for my life.

In the end this could be the only thing that saves his.

Dean begins to slowly bring his price down. Year by year, he's vainly trying to temp the demon into a deal.

He drastically drops it to five years, adding that its his last offer, and the demon smiles. She approaches him, and leans in.

"No!" I cry out before I can rein it in.

"Then no deal," she breathes against his lips.

"Fine," he challenges.

"Fine," she accepts. "Make sure you bury Sam before he starts stinkin' up the joint." Right after she says it, she peeks at me and smirks.

"Rot in hell you demonic bitch," I can't help but growl at her as she walks towards me.

"Wait." _No, Dean, no!_

"It's a fire sale and everything must go," she tells me, before turning back to Dean.

"What do I have to do?" Just like that, he freely opens himself up in an open, general contract. I didn't have to have a law school background to understand how stupid that move just was.

The demon caves, but somehow I don't doubt it's what she's been trying to get all along. She never had any intention of walking away, leaving my brother to wallow by himself. She knew she was hammering the last nail in his coffin when she used the 'bury Sam' comment.

Damn her. I've had enough at this point. I jump between her and Dean, but she simply walks right on through.

I feel disoriented for a moment, but I hear her chilling laughter in my head. She continues to taunt Dean, but assuredly offers him one year.

I can hear Dean's train of thought on this one, doesn't take much. He's thinking how great three-hundred and sixty-five days with me sounds versus one more day alone.

"You know you won't get him," I inform her. She won't, I'll see to that. "You'll never receive payment."

"But here's the thing," she adds, her eyes flicking to me, and I know she's making sure I pay attention. "If you try to welsh or weasel your way out then the deal is off, Sam drops dead and he's back to rotting meat in no time."

She beefs it up, "It's a better deal then your dad ever got. What do you say?" She already knows the answer, and neither of us is surprised when Dean angrily grabs the back of her head and seals the deal, selling his soul for my measly life.

The world around me beings to blur, the colors run together like someone pouring water over fresh paint. I feel like my body is being torn apart, and I am pulled away screaming.

* * *

I'm actually not sure how long this thing is going to be and when I'm actually going to cut it off. We'll see I guess lol...


	5. Back On Our Feet

Alrighty then...so it's been about 9 months I think since I last updated. But luckily, I finally finished this piece.

Hope you all enjoy. See my note at the bottom for why this part was necessary to add to my "oneshot" lol.

A HUGE thank you to my awesome beta and fellow Deanite Jules. Any mistakes left over are my own, I'm just unable to toy even after she's returned it.

* * *

-.-Supernatural-.-

Everything hurts. A sharp, stabbing pain in the middle of my back props me on my elbows before I even register the fact that I'm awake.

Disoriented isn't even the word for it. Taking a small, gasping breath, I try to slow my racing thoughts as I look wildly around the room.

What. The. Hell.

Okay, Sam, physical statistics first. The middle of my back is on fire, and my shoulder has the dull throb of an old, barely healed dislocation. I'm lying on a dirty mattress in the middle of an old decaying room, and I'm alone.

I have no memory of how I got there. The last thing I remember…

Oh God, Jake.

Where the hell is he? I'd been fighting with him, and thought I'd knocked him out for the count. Dean had appeared, and all was right with my messed up little world. Did Yellow Eyes step in? Separate everyone because his prized possession wasn't going to be the apparent winner?

If so, where the hell was Dean?

Years of training under the infamous John Winchester immediately halts any doubts and fears. I can't let those kinds of thoughts incapacitate me, _'second guesses and self doubt will be the death of you'_. God, I can still hear his voice even though I can't hear anything else beyond my pounding heart. Pushing everything internal aside, I arrive at a semi-decisive plan of action. First, I'm going to stand.

Holding a deep breath, I bring myself to a sitting position, the skin pulling tight in the middle of my back. Slowly I lower my legs over the side of the bed. My shoes hit the floor, and even that small jolt sends tiny tendrils of stinging pain radiating outward from my spine. I scoot slowly towards the edge of the bed, and a stray patch of sunlight from the grimy window behind me pierces through my own fog.

It was night time when I last saw Dean, so I know that not a lot of time has passed if the sun is just rising.

The bright sun still fries my already sensitive optic nerves, and the brilliant headache that accompanies momentarily takes my breath away. Taking deep breaths as the spots in my vision clear, I notice an old mirror hanging on the wall across the room. Moving slowly and carefully, I breathe through the pain as I stand and remove my jacket. Like an old man I make my way over to the mirror, each step turning into a small milestone.

Jeez, if that yellow-eyed son of a bitch has my brother, and considering it actually takes me a good two minutes to even reach the mirror, I'm pretty sure we're screwed.

Finally in front of the mirror, I grit my teeth and reach for the bottom of my shirt, pulling ever so slowly upwards.

Son of a bitch! That hurts. Turning as far as my injured back will allow me, I spot the patch of scarred skin. What the hell happened? Dean…pain…Dean running…that's basically all I remember. The missing patch of memory only scares me only half as much as my missing sibling does.

-.-Supernatural-.-

The shock of what I've just done has yet to hit me. I have just traded my soul for a one way ticket to hell, courtesy ride by a pack of rabid, blood thirsty hellhounds who are going to tear my body apart.

_One year._

The thought of fire and brimstone can't slow me now. My eagerness to get to Sam has me flying faster than my old girl can go. I'm half tempted to pull off to the side of the road, I'm pretty sure at this point I could outrun the bulky classic.

A small town flashes by in a blur of colors. With apprehension I watch as a light at the end of the street lazily changes to yellow. Cursing my luck, I brake with more anger than my car can appreciate and she screams to a stop. My fingers tap the steering wheel, and I'm seriously considering running this damn light. A bright sign to my right catches my attention and slows me enough to give me an idea.

If Sam's alive, he's got to be starving.

This town may be small, but a mom and pop's diner is still open at six in the morning. The sun is barely rising as I step through the door, a familiar bell sounds off above my head.

Grandma Betty herself comes out, rubbing her hands clean on a dusty apron and smiles, a smudge of flour covering her left cheek. "You're out awful early." Her silver hair is pasted neatly to her head and her flowered apron clings tightly to her curvy, motherly frame. Her eyes are narrowed in a glare as she shuffles towards me.

Smiling a bit, uncomfortable with her scrutiny of me, I ask her if she happens to be making breakfast.

"Well," she bites her lip thoughtfully. "We're open special this mornin' for the church's charity luncheon today. I could let ya sneak off with a pizza or two if you be willin' to skip a bit of normal breakfast food."

At this point I don't think Sammy will be picky. With that I'm itchy to get back out there again.

"Do you have anything that's ready now?"

The woman's eyes widened. "We in a hurry this mornin'?"

I nod, and feel my face burn in shame a bit. "Sorry, my…uh…my brother's at home sick and I hate leaving the house but we gotta eat ya know?" It was weak, but just like I thought she was eating it up.

"Oh," Grandma Betty's eyes widen again. "Well we certainly got more then a little pizza. I got some sandwiches I could make you, and the Chens down the street have their lil Chinese restaurant open this mornin' as well if ya want to head that way."

I try my best attempt at a grateful smile but she just waves me off.

"By the time you make it back here I will have your food ready for ya."

True to her word, as soon as I came back with my arms full of small Chinese takeout containers her husband, Grandpa Joe, is meeting me at the door, his own arms full of food. They refuse to take my money, calling it God's will that sent me to their doorstep.

I'm not even going to get into that one.

After loading up the back seat, I allow the plump woman to pull me into a short hug. "You take care of that brother now, ya hear? You two got an uneasy road ahead of yas."

Slightly shocked by her revelation, I can only manage a nod. How the hell did she know?

"Yes ma'am. Thank you again."

-.-Supernatural-.-

The stop in town couldn't have taken more then fifteen minutes, but it feels like I've taken a lifetime too long.

Finally, I pull up to the same fence I had parked at last time. I don't brake in time, and my front fender smashes through the fence. I'm out and slamming the door before the old wood takes a nose dive to the ground.

My steps slow as I reach the old house, the small one story I left my dead baby brother in.

Suddenly, a thought does slow me. Demons lie…what if she didn't bring him back? What if I wasn't clear enough, and left some loop hole for the bitch to snake through? The thought of spending my last year alone almost brings me to my knees, forcing me to take a forward step before I can face plant in the mud.

No. There was no reason for her not to bring him back, she's already got me. I continue up the steps, and reach a shaking hand for the rusted door knob.

The door flies open, and I'm inside. Instantly, my gaze tracks and settles on the most beautiful sight I think I've ever seen.

"Sammy…thank God."

-.-Supernatural-.-

I stare at that spot, the epicenter of my misery, until I hear the door burst open. I turn to find Dean there, not surprised as I realize he always seems to show up when I need him.

"Sammy," he says quietly, "thank God."

The look of pure disbelief on his face doesn't register as my confusion grows. "Hey." As grateful as I am that he's not in the company of some slimy demon, a whole new round of questions pop up.

With a few long strides, he reaches out and grabs me. The hug surprises me, but the searing pain in my back stops me short from returning the favor. I allow him a few seconds before I voice up, before I can't contain my soft cry of pain. "Ah, Dean."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry man. I just," he says as he rears back, relief quickly crossing his features and toning his voice. "I'm just happy to see you up and around, that's all."

I nod, but for a brief moment it's awkward. Dean Winchester doesn't hug.

"Come on, sit down."

"Ok," I say, but he's already leading me to a chair. I can't hold back the small grimace as I sit, son of a bitch my back hurts. "Dean, what happened to me?"

"Well, what do you remember?" he answers with a question of his own.

"I…I sa-saw you and Bobby, and I felt this pain, this sharp pain. White hot, ya know? And, then you started running at me…and uh…and that's about it." I hope at this point Dean will fill in the blanks.

"Yeah. That, that kid stabbed you in the back. You lost a lot of blood and it was pretty touch and go for a while."

I know for a fact you can't fix a wound like that. I remember the scarred patch of skin was in the center of my back, right over my spinal cord.

"Yeah, Bobby could," he quickly fires back. "Who was that kid anyway?" I recognize this as a classic Dean-diversion tactic, but as soon as he mentions Jake a sudden flair of anger sparks within me. I know I should have been angry for what he did, but I didn't know at this point where the hell the boiling rage was suddenly coming from. I suddenly have the feeling I should be mad at him for more than just stabbing me in the back. Something tugs at the back of my mind, but I can't quite grasp it.

"His name's Jake. Did you get him?"

"No, he disappeared into the woods." To know he was out there, still, after what had happened, sends me over the edge.

"We gotta find him Dean," I say through clenched teeth. "And I swear I'm going to tear that son of a bitch apart." I raise intent on that very thing and hiss, damning the crippling pain that has yet to ease up.

"Whoa whoa whoa, easy Van Damme," Dean says as he follows. "You just woke up, alright? Let's get you something to eat. Want something to eat?"

I nod, and hope maybe some solid food will take the horrible clenching out of my stomach at least.

"I'm starving," Dean says, his mood suddenly a bit lighter. "Bobby left us some chicken, and a few sodas." The chicken looks old, and the grease has coagulated around the dried up poultry, gluing the hacked up chicken parts to the bottom of the thin cardboard box. "But those look nasty." He grins, and tells me he'll be right back.

-.-Supernatural-.-

My arms are loaded, and there's a slight burn in my biceps by the time I reach the house. It had only taken me a few seconds to run down to grab the food from my backseat, but damn if they didn't give me enough to feed all of Hell.

I fight with but finally am able to open the door, and mutter a quick hallelujah as I find Sam where I left him, absentmindedly twirling the plastic cap to his pop bottle between his fingers.

_Still breathing…still alive…_

The sight alone makes me feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest, and instantly I know I would go and make that deal all over again if I had to.

He is worth every minute spent in hell.

He glances up and grins, asking me if I think I got enough to feed the undead too.

"Shuddup," I smirk, dropping the pizza boxes and the unmarked brown bags the other food had come in onto the warn table. Sam leans forward and steals a slice of the pizza, inhaling half of it in one bite.

After we've eaten a few slices in easy silence, I take a deep breath, and ask him what the hell happened after the diner.

"After I woke up, the first person I found here was Andy…"

-.-Supernatural-.-

* * *

Alright, I promise, I'm done, finished, finito, that's the end...

So, Jules did want to see how they ended up with all of that food. I toyed around with the idea of them ordering all of the food, but that sort of didn't work out. Who in the world would deliver to Cold Oak? Lol. Then I was with Jules when we thought maybe Dean could take Sam around but then why would they return to Cold Oak?

Kripke sort of created a weird scene there, so I'm hoping it made sense.

Thank you for everyone who has ever reviewed, suscribed, and simply read. Hope you found it worth it, this is one of my faves. -grin-

Salute,  
Kris


End file.
